until my breathing stops
by SilverRavenStar
Summary: Shamelessly, utterly fluffy one-shot. Jaime and Brienne return to Casterly Rock for their wedding.


Shamelessly, utterly fluffy one-shot (I REGRET NOTHING). Jaime and Brienne return to Casterly Rock for their wedding.

* * *

His bride came to him in a gown as blue as her eyes and a cloak that swept the floor of the sept, quartered in the yellow suns on rose and the white crescents on azure of House Tarth, pinned over one shoulder with a silver sword. Though until the moment she emerged, Jaime had not been sure that she would wear either. Brienne had been shirking from the prospect for weeks, objecting that it was too much an expense and bother to have new things made to measure, and that she would content herself with a knight's finery, as always. While ordinarily Jaime would have come back with some wry riposte referencing Lannisters, gold, and shit, it _was _true that the vaults of Casterly Rock were a pale shadow of their former selves, despoiled by war, sacking, and surrender, and while they were not _quite_ lacking even two groats to rub together, the wedding was going to be a small and modest affair. Strange indeed, for such a legendarily wealthy family, but no stranger than him leaving the Kingsguard, the dragon queen having been prevailed upon to grant him a pardon but to (understandably) want no part of Jaime Lannister near her person. No stranger than him coming home to Casterly Rock after decades, finally the son and heir Lord Tywin had always wanted – but not this way. Not one-handed, humbled, the faintest shadow of his former self, an exonerated traitor, more than halfway penniless and grey streaks gilding his golden hair. Not coming home as the Kingslayer, but only as Jaime.

(He also somehow vigorously doubted that his lord father had ever envisioned him marrying _this _woman, who brought no position, no power, no influence, only a modest dowry – sapphires, naturally – and certainly no crown. Nothing but stubbornness to beat a brick wall, willfulness to defeat a donkey, loyalty to shame any hero in a song, and love to light the stars.)

Aside from the dress, Brienne had also balked at the cloak. She was no longer strictly the _Maid _of Tarth, she said, and therefore it would be dishonorable of her to present herself as such. Jaime, who had had a thing or two to do with that, assured her that if only actual maidens were permitted to wear maiden's cloaks at their weddings, the cloth industry would swiftly go out of business. But she was still reticent, and he finally pried it out of her that it was not the women's garb that she feared, exactly, so much as the stares or mockery of the smallfolk. "If they laugh. . . if they. . ."

"You'll be the Lady of Casterly Rock after our wedding," he reminded her. "My wife, and a Lannister. They won't laugh."

"But what if they do?"

Jaime shrugged. "Take your sword out and beat their arses until they begin to respect you, then unaccountably fall in love with you."

Brienne looked at him reproachfully. "And you really think that will work?"

"It did for a certain Lannister I know. At least, I think it was that. Couldn't have been the tits in the bath, because – ouch!"

"Kingslayer," Brienne informed him matter-of-factly. "I am going to kill you."

"See," Jaime sighed, ducking away from her. "The course of true love never did run smooth. But if you dress as a knight, I promise that I will dress as a fair maid, complete with gown, silken smallclothes, and veil, and make my vows before the septon in a falsetto. And I can guarantee that then they _will _laugh."

Brienne had looked as if she could not decide whether to smile or strangle him, and Jaime helpfully employed the interlude to catch her, kiss her, and otherwise interest her in a different sort of fighting. But later, she'd asked again, worriedly, if that was what he wanted of her now: to lay aside her sword and shield and mail, to become a proper Westerosi lady and tend the castle, to take up embroidery or the high harp or some other appropriately feminine pursuit. "It was what my other suitors would have had of me, that I should know my place. Red Ronnet Connington – he told me that otherwise no man would ever marry such a – "

Jaime scratched his beard. "Did I ever tell you about the time I punched Red Ronnet Connington directly in his slanderous gob, at Harrenhal, for foully intimating just such a thing about you?"

She stared at him. "You what?"

"Story for later. But Brienne. . . there are a _thousand _women I could have married, now that I'm inheriting the cut-rate version of Casterly Rock after all. Any one of them could speak prettily, sew prettily, dance prettily, look pretty, and otherwise bore me to tears. It's you I want. _You." _He pulled her into his arms, so she had no choice but to look into his eyes, big suspicious blue meeting earnest green. "You'll be exactly who you were before, I hope and pray. And on that note, do you think there's time to convert to the old gods before the ceremony? All they have to do is kneel before a tree, make a promise, and there they are, married. Far preferable to the whole nonsense of seven vows and seven songs and seven blessings, wouldn't you say?"

Brienne looked wistful. "I. . . had always loved the beauty of the wedding rites. That they could seal man and woman together, one flesh, one soul, one spirit. . ."

_Oh, shut your trap, Lannister. You're only making it worse. _"Don't fret. We'll have the full bells and smells. As I've said, certain niceties needs be observed, and if you'd rather not have them include the new Lord of Casterly Rock in lacey underthings, so help us all, you'll agree to have a dress and cloak made. Just the once, if that's all. Just to show them that you _are _a woman, you're _my _woman. I'm not taking you from charity or pity or as a freak show. I want them to see you as I see you, which is _beautiful. _Please. For me?"

Brienne sighed, her forehead resting against his. He felt the tension run out of her in a slow leak, but she remained silent. _Stubborn brave wench. _"All right," she said. "I'll have them made."

* * *

Seeing her now, Jaime could only think that whatever the cost, it had been worth it.

The wedding was held in Casterly Rock's small sept, the place where his parents had been married, where he had learned to pray with Cersei kneeling beside him, where he had never thought he would come again without cynicism, mockery, or fear. _I dreamed of wedding a woman here as well, but not this one. _Foolish, like so much of the rest of him. But so it had been. Everything he had done in his life, until the moment his sword hand was parted from his body, had been for Cersei. _The dragon kings wed their sisters for hundreds of years, and everyone stood silently by, from the High Septon to the meanest swineherd. _Could he have helped it? Could he have asked for anything other than what it was, a love to consume and destroy the world? He still dreamed of her, eyes like wildfire, a lioness stalking in from the night. Once he had never imagined being able to live without her, to even take a breath without her.

That, like so much now, was _before._

And it was not Cersei who came walking up the aisle now, escorted by her father, eyes shyly cast down; Lord Selwyn had made the journey from Tarth to see his only daughter wed, knowing that his grandchildren would rule island and Rock alike. But that and all other thoughts were driven out of Jaime's head as he merely looked at Brienne. The gown was blue, cut low to flatter her long neck, silver thread adorning the dagged sleeves and hem, a row of white lace banding the bosom. She wore no veil, only a plain silver circlet over her blonde hair. Her smile was shy, but sweet.

Brienne and Lord Selwyn reached the altar, placed between the statues of Father and Mother as was customary for weddings, and the Evenstar laid his daughter's hand in Jaime's. It was trembling, so Jaime squeezed it. Brienne smiled at him again, tremulously, and he saw a deep breath shudder through her. Then, together, they turned to face the septon, and knelt.

To his surprise, Jaime found that he did not mind the length of the ceremony at all. It seemed different, it seemed to matter, as if the words were not merely washing over him like wind and instead changing him, changing them both. So much work lay ahead in the days and weeks and months to come. Rebuilding the Rock, picking up the pieces of the westerlands after the longest winter known to maester or man, to retrieving any hope of a family. Tyrion was with Queen Daenerys in King's Landing, but the brothers had kept a cool distance. Cersei was dead. And of their children, the children she had done so much for, only Tommen survived. He was here at the wedding, but would soon return to court, part page and part as hostage for Jaime's good behavior. _Must we dance this old dance again? _Daenerys' rule was only secure in the south, and there was no telling if another war of conquest was to come. _She has dragons, but not for long._

Or perhaps his days were only now again beginning.

When it came time to change the cloaks, Jaime carefully undid the sword brooch at Brienne's throat, doing his best not to look like an utter idiot with one hand, and let the colors of House Tarth fall away. She stood very straight as he draped her in the red and gold of House Lannister, then fastened it anew with a lioness. He winked at her, and she gave him a little smile in return, but before the septon could continue the ceremony, Jaime startled everyone by moving to retrieve the fallen cloak. He lifted it up and offered it back to Brienne. "My lady," he said softly. "If you'd do the same for me?"

She stared at him. "You – want – ?"

"I can't count the number of times I'd be dead by now if you hadn't protected me. I hope I never have to face a day where you won't. It would be my honor and my life."

For a moment longer, Brienne hesitated. Then she nodded, stepped forward firmly, and swept the colors of House Tarth over his shoulders, fastening the sword brooch far more deftly than he'd fumbled it off (had she picked the one with the most complicated clasp on purpose, cruel wench?) She was still smiling, but now tears were standing in her eyes as well, and he gently thumbed them away. "With this kiss I pledge my love," he told her, "and take you for my lady and wife."

"With this kiss I. . ." Brienne had to stop, swallow, and compose herself, but continued. "With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband."

They leaned forward, his arms wrapping around her and hers around him, clad in each other's colors, the wench and the kingslayer, perhaps the gods' greatest jest – or perhaps their greatest vindication. She was as tall as he, perhaps even taller, and their lips met in the middle. A slow kiss, gentle, and unspeakably tender. The sort of kiss you could only give to someone who knew you so desperately well, in good and ill, in health and sickness, a lifetime already lived at each other's sides, and the promise of another yet to come. Of fights hot enough to raise the roof, of atonements even hotter, of grief, of loss, of joy.

Of love. In the end, and after everything, a love powerful and redemptive enough to make even the Kingslayer believe in second chances.

The septon raised the crystal high over their heads, scattering rainbow light. "Here in the sight of gods and men," he proclaimed, "I do solemnly proclaim Jaime of House Lannister and Brienne of House Tarth to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

_Now and forever._

* * *

The feast, to Brienne, was barely more than a blur.

She laughed, she drank, she ate, sharing cup and trencher with Jaime and even allowing him to whirl her with the other dancers, but she could not help but dread what came at the end. She knew that the bedding ceremony was tradition, she knew it was all in good fun, she knew it was looked forward to even more avidly than the rest of the festivities, but still it sat like cold lead in her belly. They'd undress her, they'd pull away her armor, they'd see her naked and jest about it, and she was none so sure she could stand any of it. Only recently had Brienne come to believe that she was not truly as ugly as she'd always been told, that it mattered to her husband (and how queer that still sounded) a grand total of fuck-all, but among rowdy men, sozzled revelers. . . she had spent her life hiding from them, fending them off, sleeping with one eye open, her sword never far from reach. She was terrified of having to face them now.

Brienne spent so long in dread of the moment that she was almost relieved when it arrived. Some drunkard called, "Let's have a lordly bedding!" and of course, so soon as the notion was planted in their heads, there was no getting it out. Benches and chairs emptied with a general thunderous scrape, and the women made for Jaime; the men, for Brienne. She froze, shrinking back in her chair, her smile fixed. What was she supposed to do now? Flirt? Jest back? Anything but flee precipitately, she imagined, which was exactly what she wanted.

Jaime noticed her discomfort at once. "Goodfolk," he called over the merry clamor. "While I am more than willing to be subjected to whatever horrid indignities your filthy little imaginations can possibly conjure, I shall have to ask you to restrain from doing the same to my bride."

"Why?" one of the drunkest called. "Afraid we'll get her clothes off, and see she's actually a man? She did serve Renly, after all. You never know!"

Brienne flinched, barely holding back tears. But just then, a sudden, uneasy silence fell as Jaime shoved back from the table and stood up, his golden hand dropping to the dagger hung fashionably from his belt. "You're so far in the back there, I could barely hear you. How about you come up here and say that to our faces?"

Realizing that he had crossed a line, the unfortunate soul blanched. "M'lord. . . m'lord, I meant no disrespect, I only just – "

"Bugger that." Jaime slammed a fist on the table, making everyone jump. "Do you think I'm a bloody idiot? Of course you meant bloody disrespect. For the public edification, I will say this once and only once. Anyone who insults my wife insults me, the Rock, and the Lannister name itself, and I don't suppose you're quite so stupid as to not know what becomes of those who do. You're lucky I'm not Walder Frey, otherwise I'd order those players up there in the gallery to strike up _The_ _Rains of Castamere. _Just to give you little shits all a good fright."

The aforesaid players, who had been launching into the bawdy music suitable for a bedding, suddenly looked alarmed. "We – we can if you like, Lord Jaime?"

"No need." Jaime waved them off. "Yet. Now, as I was saying. You can strip me and bundle me off to bed and make all the scandalously inappropriate innuendos you like, assuming I don't think of them first, in which case you only get half the credit. But anyone who tries it with my lady will soon get a nice shiny hand to match mine."

General glances were exchanged. The silence lingered. Then the players looked at each other, gulped, and determinedly struck up "The Emperor Hasn't Any Clothes."

Jaime was borne from the hall in a jolly cascade, whereas Brienne followed more slowly. She stood almost alone after the heat and hilarity of the procession had blown by, looking at the torches burning low, the glimmer of a sunset over the Sunset Sea, the first hints of spring flavoring the breeze. She wondered how long it would take her to truly feel at home here, to believe herself its lady, to know that she could fight for it, and they for her. _How many more japes of that sort will there be? _But she must be brave enough to face them. For better or for worse, for richer or poorer, she was a Lannister now. And there were far worse things to fear than one drunken smallholder. Nothing she had not heard before.

After a moment, Brienne turned and climbed the stairs, her blue dress whispering over the stones. She could hear the general tumult from above, and it made her lip quirk into a wry smile. By the time she reached the nuptial bedchamber, and slipped into the back almost unnoticed, Jaime was down to his rather flimsy-looking braies and making some sort of witticism about hoping he'd be better at this sort of swordfighting than he was presently with his real swordfighting (a lie, as he had become quite adept with his left hand thanks to Brienne's hours of pummeling). But he saw her, stopped, and then whistled.

Brienne felt a heat creeping up her cheeks, but she managed to grin, shoot a few wisecracks back, and wade through the sea of humanity surrounding the marriage bed. When she perched on the edge, Jaime rested his good hand on her waist and quirked a devilish eyebrow at their audience. "Well? Are you going to wait to find out just how incompetent I am, or merely abandon me to my fate? Frankly, I'd rather that you did. The last one of you out of this room gets a special rendition of the _Rains of Castamere, _all for you."

There was a stampede across the floor, pushing and jostling and swearing, a few parting shots loosed to Jaime, who scalded them back in kind. A distorted, echoing quiet fell as the wedding-party galumphed away down the stairs, to continue the celebrations in the hall.

"_Finally." _Jaime swung off the bed, barred the door, and padded back.

"That was a bit cruel, don't you think?" Brienne was giggling despite herself.

"Between you knocking them on their arses with swords and me harassing them with harps, I don't doubt we'll be the most terrifying lord and lady Casterly Rock has ever had, wench." Jaime slid closer, bending to tug lightly at the laces of her dress with his teeth. "And I didn't intend that anyone but me should have the pleasure of tearing this off you."

"It was rather costly," Brienne protested weakly. "I don't want you to – "

"See." Jaime lifted his eyes to hers, sparkling with mischief. "I don't think you've quite grasped it yet. You're a _Lannister_. We might be, by our own standards, poor as bloody dirt, but it's still richer than you've ever been in your life. If I want to do such a thing as rip off a dress, I intend to do it. On the vanishingly rare chance that you want another one, I'll have it made. Our children will be very confused, I expect, but – what?"

"Children." Brienne clutched the counterpane. "You'd. . . want them? After everything?"

"Aye." Jaime's voice was soft. "I suppose I would. Tommen is. . . he's many things to me now, and I love him dearly, but he was never quite my son. Never allowed to be. Always Cersei's. One day, when he's older, I'll tell him, but. . . not yet. He doesn't need to know. Not yet. His world already has been turned upside down. He needs something normal."

Quietly, Brienne smoothed Jaime's tousled hair out of his face, then drew him closer, their lips browsing against each other's in the dimness. "Well," she whispered shyly. "I – I suppose then I'd want them too. Someday. Even though I don't know the first thing about being a mother."

"What makes you think I know the first thing about being a father?" Jaime swung a leg over her, and the two of them fell back on the bed together. "Or how to be a lord, or a husband, or even a decent man? I've also lost everything in the world that once mattered to me, so I know how it feels, and. . . I'm bloody petrified, wench. I can't do it again. Not with you. Not with us."

"I know." Brienne pulled him on top of her, and they wrestled and kicked and kissed atop the covers, one final fight, as he continued his dogged mission of getting her out of the dress by hook or by crook, until she was kicking the last silken shreds to the floor and feeling nothing but Jaime's burning gaze on her bare skin, as she reached out to him and he moved closer as if mesmerized. Shaking, never having said the words before and meant them so passionately, to every sinew and thread of her, she whispered, "I love you."

For an eternal moment, the silence hung huge between them, and she found herself clutched in one last terror. Then slowly, he raised his head and took her hand in his good one, planting slow, soft kisses on it, up her arm, as her head hit the pillow and he straddled her, as he met her eyes unblinking.

"I know," he breathed. "I know. And so do I. So do I. I don't think I could do anything else, wench, and I don't plan to. Every night and every day. Until there's nothing left of us but songs and tales. Until they still remember how Jaime Lannister loved his woman. Until we're a pair of stars together in the sky. Until my breathing stops. And then, beyond it."

Brienne's heart clenched. She wanted to say something back, something just as heartfelt, as beautiful, but she had no words. Only want. Only completion.

The spring stars came out. The world kept turning. And there was no breath, no wind, but for the one that blew him home to her.


End file.
